Better Than Nothing
by Kelly123
Summary: What happens to the boy, will he be destroyed...is this winning or losing?  Brian-centric
1. Father Figure

_I know that like, no one but me even cares about MSCL anymore, but I couldn't help posting this. I've been rewatching the few episodes season 1 graced us with on Netflicks and it got my weird Brian/angst obsession flowing again_. _Which in turn spawned this. Do with it what you will.  
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_Missing moments/alternate scenes from inside Brian's room. More than a little bittersweet, just like the series itself._

_D: Not mine._

_(italics are from the ep)  
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><p><strong>FATHER FIGURE<strong>

She didn't go to the concert that night.

He wasn't supposed to know that she was going, she didn't know that he knew because it wasn't something she had told him or anything, but he still, like, knew. Or at least, he thought he did, but he was obviously wrong, or else she wouldn't be here, sitting in his car. Okay, it was really his Mom's car, or whatever, but regardless it definitely wasn't a Grateful Dead concert, and she wasn't in there with Rayanne Graff...or worse, Jordan Catalano. But why was she here then, and not there? And moreover, why was he knocking against the window, when it was his (Mom's) car, parked on his driveway, at his house? But she was, and he was, and then there was a tightness building within his chest as he sat down next to her, because she didn't storm off in a huff when he came within five feet of her this time. He tried to ignore it, because feeling strange around Angela wasn't exactly something new to him, or anything, but it was kind of hard when they were alone...together...in the back of a parked car.

He was staring at her, but she probably didn't notice, because she was looking almost everywhere but in his direction. She looked embarrassed, and it felt kind of good to be on the other side of the feeling for once.

_"Hi."_ she greets him stiltedly, cradling her knees to her chest against the cold,_ "Umm, it wasn't locked, and I just, can't go home right now, and there's nowhere else to go and it's...freezing."_

So essentially, what she was saying was, he was her last option. When all else fails, might as well turn to Krakow. Until something better comes along, of course. And with Angela, better things usually came along in the strangest ways, and they tended to involve Jordan Catalano. _"Are you like, meeting someone in here?"_

She makes eye contact them, but only to give him a look that could kill. _"That is so unfunny."_

Of course it is. But if anyone is going to have their feelings hurt by the memory of the last time she was over here, and she actually was meeting someone...well, if he could see the humor in it, then he figured she owed him at least that much.

But he bit down on his lip to hide the grin that was tugging at the corners of his mouth anyway. She still hadn't jumped out of the car, and he took that as incentive to watch his mouth before he blurted out something stupid to set her off, like he tended to do. It wasn't like he was unaware of his social ineptitude, but he just didn't know how else to be. Calculus he understood. Physics was completely decipherable. But other teenagers? Especially teenage girls, especially Angela Chase? They made no sense to him, whatsoever. So when he was around Angela he would spout off an insult and run the other direction, the high school equivalent of pushing the girl you liked down on the playground in elementary. If he didn't criticize her, he was afraid he would end up confessing his undying love or something equally humiliating. They had gone from best friends to total strangers virtually overnight, and he had no idea how to bridge that gap.

But being nice, maybe, would be a way to start.

_"What about...my room?"_ He was regretting the words the second they were out of his mouth. Did he sound like some sort of a sexual deviant, saying that? Wasn't that something that sexual deviants said? Oh great, now he had-

_"What about your parents?"_

She hadn't...she wasn't...was she actually considering it?

He gulped, _"They won't even notice, they're balancing their joint-checking."_

_"Mine are getting audited."_ She replies with a roll of her eyes, but she's already reaching for the door handle and her words barely register to his brain, unable to be heard over the noisy drone picking up steam in his ears.

He thinks he mumbles something back about penmanship as he crawls out after her, and it must not have sounded too asinine, because she sort of gives him a half-smile over her shoulder, he is certain they have slipped into an alternate universe, because this type of thing just doesn't happen in real life. Not his, at least. The world is spinning tumultuously all around him and he can't be sure what is up or down or right or left any longer, isn't even sure he can find his way back to his own house not twenty feet ahead of them, because he can't seem to take his eyes off of her. It turns out he doesn't have to, though, as she remembers the steps well enough for the both of them, and all he has to do is follower her lead along the sidewalk to the Krakow's backdoor.

"Wait!" he says, stopping her before she rounds the corner of the house. Through the dreamlike fog of the last thirty seconds he somehow manages to recall from somewhere within the depths of his memory that his parents are seated just beyond that door at the kitchen table, and somehow he isn't looking forward to the inevitable 'sexual latency' discussion coming his way if they find their son leading his neighbor up to his room on a school night. "I've got another trash can to take out first. Why don't you go in the front door? My room is-"

"Same place it has always been?" She responds sarcastically, but it's almost teasing, and he can't stop himself from grinning like an idiot back at her.

"Right. I mean, yeah."

And she is walking about from him again, but this time, it's okay. This time she knows that he is coming after her, and she's like, okay with it.

His feet can't carry him fast enough to grab the second trash and bring it out to join its mate at the curb. This one seems lighter though, the garbage inside of it almost smells sweeter and it's almost like the stars above him are all shining a little bit more brightly than before. Or maybe that was just because another light had joined them and was suddenly illuminating the night sky. Above him, in the upstairs window of his house, there was a soft yellow glow from a light switch that had just been flipped on. This was really happening, Angela Chase was actually inside of his bedroom.

Staring up at the light like a lost sailor who has suddenly spotted the glow of a lighthouse, he feels his breath catch in his throat. He can see her, or the silhouette of her shadow at least, standing just behind the glass and looking down at him. Forgetting for a moment what he was doing, he lifts his hand to wave at her...and promptly drops the aluminum can onto his shoe. It clatters loudly against the pavement and lands on his foot again, sending waves of pain radiating through him.

Smooth Krakow, real smooth.

A female voice interrupts the racket, but not the right one. "Brian," his mother calls out, "what was that?"

He is sure Angela can hear Bernice and his resulting grimace is due in part to both pain and embarrassment. He puts both hands on the wobbling trash can to quiet it, and in that moment he kind of wants to die right here on the sidewalk. "Just the trash can mom, I'm fine!"

She isn't at the window anymore when he looks back up, and he doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Overall, he can't really help but to feel anything except nervous anticipation as he heads across the lawn.

It was probably a good thing his big toe was throbbing, or else he probably wouldn't have been able to stop himself from sprinting the whole way up to his room. As it was, he settles at a brisk walk, cutting through the grass and using the front door himself to escape his mother and any of the embarrassing questions he is subjected to daily as the child of psychiatrists but would never want Angela to hear. Outside of his bedroom door he stops to compose himself on the landing. He can't appear to be out of breath or overly anxious, like having a girl in his room was anything to get excited about. For all she knew, he had girls over all the time...except he didn't, not since her and Cherski used to come over when they were little, and if he had, she would have seen them going into or leaving his house. Well, that is, if she ever watched what went on over here. She probably didn't, not the way he watched through his...

Oh no. His camera! It was still set up at his window, the tripod pointing it directly towards her room! And she had been standing there not even a few minutes ago, what if she looked through the lens? What if she saw that he like, invaded her privacy? What if she thought he was like, a complete and total pervert?

He almost turns around right then, thinks about asking his mom to make her leave or something juvenile like that, but decides against it uneasily. When he gets up the nerve to push the door open, he can't help but to let out a sigh of relief to find her with her back to his valued possession. She has picked up a stack of developed photographs he took for yearbook and left out on his desk, and is flipping through them thoughtfully. A lock of her hair has slipped from behind her ear and she absentmindedly swipes at it with her free hand when it falls in front of her eyes and obscures her vision, but otherwise is focused on the pictures in her hands.

"These are really good, Brian." She says, looking up at him as he walks inside, and he isn't sure, but he doesn't think she isn't even being sarcastic.

"What, are you like, surprised?" he snaps back, out of habit, and immediately hates himself for it. She just rolls her eyes though, and turns her attention back to the pictures so he crosses the distance between them to settle himself on the edge of his desk as she sinks down to sit in his chair.

Together they view the captured images with him peering over her shoulder, though he has to fight the urge to tuck that one stubborn strand of hair back into place by shoving his hands deep inside his pockets. She laughs at some them and scoffs at others, and when she comes to one of herself she kind of blushes and makes him promise to not turn it in. He agrees, though he can't at all understand why she would feel that way, because she looks amazing in it. He is desperately glad that the other ones like it, containing nothing but her, her, her, at school and in her home, have already been separated and hidden beneath his mattress for...safe keeping.

The minutes pass and turn into hours, and he doesn't even notice the tension in his chest easing until it's gone. There is still a nervous fluttering in the pit of his stomach whenever her elbow brushes his knee, but it feels nice, and it's all too easy to remember why they had been friends in the first place. They build up a steady report, and when she reaches the end of the stack and asks expectantly if he has any more, he doesn't think twice about obliging. There are shoe boxes full of envelopes inside his closet, and he feels a flicker of pride as he presents them to her. As she flips through each one her eyes sparkle with interest, even the rolls from when his family went to visit his father's relatives in Texas a few summers ago, and he is surprisingly good-natured when she laughs at the effect of the southern humidity on his already uncontrollable hair. She spots a familiar face and they launch into reminiscing about the summer his cousins came to stay with him when they were in 6th grade. They had tricked a very bothersome Danielle into playing hide-and-seek and then left her huddled in the attic for much longer than was responsible while everyone else went over to Sharon's to play poker with spare change. Soon they are laughing so hard at the memory of Danielle's ensuing rage at being duped that tears are streaming from both of their eyes, and he can barely speak to tell her they have to quiet down before his parents come to investigate.

The memories are sweet, and he wishes time would stop so that he could spend forever with her like this. But when his mother calls up the stairs to wish him goodnight, he knows that their time together is over. She announces that she should be getting home, and just maybe he thinks that she puts the glossy paper down almost regretfully (though he chides himself afterward that he was probably just imagining it). Nevertheless, once his parents are in bed he walks her out through the silent house and she finally tucks that troublesome piece of hair back behind her ear while they both smile without a hint of irony as they wave goodbye at the threshold.

He goes out and buys a Grateful Dead tape the next day. He figures he at least owes the band that much, for what very well might be the best night of his entire life.

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><p><em>I think the scene in this episode where he gives her his sweater is just too. stinkin'. cute...but I would have rather liked it if she went to his room instead.<br>_


	2. Betrayal

_I am probably crazy for continuing to post this, but I hold out hope that there might be a few of us out there searching for a little Brian/Angela to get us through the day. Although, if you are needing a bit of fluff to brighten your day, stick to the 1st chapter. Oh, and if anyone besides me is reading this, I encourage you to read "The Passion According to Angela" because it is fantastic. Except you, Schedherazade Bet...you don't have to_.

_Not really an alternative ending like before, more of an expansion of a scene, in Brian's room again, of course._

_D: Not mine._

_(italics are from the ep)_

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><p><strong>BETRAYAL<strong>

She didn't deserve this.

The revelation hit him like a ton of bricks the second his head popped through the neck of his shirt and he caught sight of her. The simple act was taking far longer than it should have, since his hands weren't cooperating and he couldn't seem to pull the fabric over his head fast enough, a million thoughts were swirling around inside his head. And okay, maybe if he told the whole truth he was a little nervous about having to actually face her. He knew what she was here for before she had to say a word, and the knowledge filled him with dread. She had seemed almost embarrassed when she first charged into his room, but now it was obvious she was here on a mission. All he could really make out as he situated his arms through the sleeves was a whirl of red hair, flaring violently behind her as she ransacked his room without any respect of his personal space, but even just that was enough. It was obvious just from the way she was moving around so frantically, almost like she could break into a million pieces at any moment, just how wrong he had been about her deserving whatever heartbreak she had coming to her. Because, okay, yeah, he had managed to convince himself that she did, somewhere deep down in the bitter and vindictive part of his heart that was controlled by that stupid jealous streak he wasn't willing to admit he had no reason to possess. It was there though, healthy and thriving and all to often ready to remind him of how she had jutted her chin out defiantly when she said she would laugh at him when he fell in love, of the look of that smirk on her face like she was so wise, when really she had no idea...none at all. So if she had said she would laugh at him, he should have every right to do the same to her, right? And so, theoretically, he should be laughing at her now, shouldn't he?

Like, by all logical reasoning he should be enjoying this moment, just as he should have savored each and every downward spiral in her tumultuous relationship with Catalano, numerous as they were. It should have tasted sweet, as revenge was supposed to, but all he was ever left with was a bitter taste in his mouth. Because somehow, the equation had never seemed to balance out in his favor. Every time he had gone to gloat at her heartbreak, ready to tell her 'I told you so' like an insufferable toddler and finally gleen the satisfaction he felt was deserved from her pain, he couldn't bring himself to carry it out. Sure he could throw in a few insults, be a self-righteous jerk and insensitive prick and mean every word of it, but in the end he knew he would always be there for her, no matter how much it hurt him along the way. It was an old routine for the two of them, and it didn't matter how many times he told himself he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't care about what she got herself into anymore, it was like...understood that he didn't really mean any of it. He only wished he could lie to her as straightforwardly as he did himself.

Because when he tried, the falsehoods that came spilling from his mouth where obvious and paper-thin. It was hard to think on his feet when she had barged into his room to find him naked from the waist up, and even though he was only doing something as innocent as listening to music, he still felt like he had been caught in the midst of some obscene act. Putting his shirt on backwards with his heart pounding like crazy definitely didn't help matters any, and his anxiety showed in how clumsy his lies came out. He could hear the nervous break in his own voice, and she brushed off his rebuttals as easily as she had always managed to do the notion that he had feelings for her. She couldn't be bothered by things as trivial as his right now, he could tell. Her thoughts were focused entirely on another person, another boy who could never be him. She was like a hurricane tearing into his room, fear and anger smeared on her face like a surrealist painting, all hard angles and swollen eyes and snapping teeth. It was beautiful, in a very dangerous sort of way, and he was amazed and disgusted by the way his feelings for her still managed to surface in the most inappropriate of situations.

In spite of it all, in spite of the fact that she barely seems to register that he is even there in the room with her, all he wants to do is take her in his arms. He could never, of course, because she is terrifying right now and pretty much always, though in a much different way, but still. He can tel that she is on the verge of shattering and he desperately wants to catch the pieces before they hit the ground.

_"You shouldn't see it."_ The words are expelled from his mouth before he has time to really think about them, about what he even means by saying so, but it's too late and there they are, a great deal louder than he intended.

It couldn't have taken more than a few seconds for him to speak, but he feels like it takes years for the next few moments to play out. Everything shifts once those words hit the atmosphere, and now she definitely knows he exists. And from the palpable tension thrumming in the room he knows there is no way to take anything back. Strangely though, he doesn't think he wants to, even if he could. He holds his breath for a moment to study her reaction, and honestly, he has no idea what to expect.

Will she scream at him, like she is always so quick to do? Yell that he has no right to tell her what she should or shouldn't do, which is so completely and disgusting true that he hates himself for it? He waits for the familiar impact her wails of protest have on him, but when none come he feels something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach. Because this is worse than their fighting, her silence. His eyes finally meet hers straight on, and he finds her frozen in his doorway, the tape clenched in her white-knuckled fist. Her face is still a mask of anger, but her eyes are wide and she is looking at him with a strange sort of apprehension, like she's contemplating whether or she could trust what he was saying. Whether or not she wanted to. And it's then that he realizes just how badly he needs her to.

It's not hope, whatever it is he feels tugging at the dead weight within him, but it could very well be something dangerously close to it. He struggles to hold her gaze, but it's hard, because he never has been good at eye contact, and especially not with her.

But he knows he has to at least try, because it could very well be his last chance. And if she could just trust him, just this one time, if she would only see that when it seemed like there wasn't anyone else she could count on, that there was him, that there had always been him, and always would be. He doesn't know how he could possibly put all of that into a look though, and in the end he is pretty sure what ends up being conveyed is simply defeat. Because why would she put her faith in him now? It wasn't like he had ever given her reason to, had he?

That heavy feeling sinks down, and he feels it pulling him down with it.

_"I mean...I don't think you'd really want to see it."_ His voice trails off and he feels lower than low, like he was the one who caused her all this pain, and maybe in a way he is.

He's not usually one for admitting fault, or at least not his own. He used to think it was because he wasn't usually wrong, but lately, it seems that being wrong is like...all he is.

He wishes he had destroyed that film, or better yet had shut off the camera as soon as he saw the two of them that night. He should have thrown it aside and gone over to where they leaned drunkenly against that old chainlink to punched Catalano in the nose, even if it meant severe fractures of all the bones in his hand (and his face, probably, in the aftermath), because nothing could have hurt worse than watching what this was doing to her now. He could pretend that it was her fault for letting herself care about people who obviously didn't care about her, but that would make him nothing more than like, a hypocrite. And she still had no idea that she could make him feel this way, even as he stood right there in front of her...and maybe that made it hurt all the more. His mouth has gone dry, and he chokes on the words that follow.

_"It'd just make you feel worse."  
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His statement sounds flat, even to his ears. They are the kind of hollow, worthless words of false wisdom a person says when they can't think of any other type of advice that might actually prove useful. Except that they aren't, not from him. Because he means it, even if his voice betrays the fact that he's given up hope she might believe anything he says. She should though, because he knows that it will. Knows so because it totally did to him.

She still isn't saying anything, and it's so much worse than all the times she has cut him down with daggers on her tongue as quickly and as easily as drawing a breathe. Her silence is saying much more this time though, and the room seems to be reverberating with everything that has been left unsaid between the two of them. It's almost deafening, this pregnant, unnatural quiet, and he desperately needs her to break it. He wants her to yell at him, to accuse him of being jealous, or over analytical, or just a pathetic nerd, for crying out loud. If she would just call him all the names he knows he deserves he might feel a little bit vindicated in what he's done, and he holds his breath for a moment he knows will never come. Because this time he knows she won't grant him this small mercy, and he thinks he might even agree with her on that. He doesn't think she is even going to look at him, with her hands on the tape and her feet poised for escape in his doorway, but just he thinks he's lost her forever, her eyes meet his. But when she does, there is something akin to a pitying disgust in her red-rimmed eyes, and suddenly it's like the floor has dropped out from underneath him.

She throws the cursed tape down and storms out, but he doesn't call after her. He can't, his throat has closed up and it feels as though all the air has been sucked from his lungs, leaving nothing but a painful friction scraping through him every time he draws a breath. He couldn't speak a thing more to her now, not even if he had any words left to say.

And he isn't sure, but he doesn't think he does.

Because who is he, to her, anymore? What right does he have to say how or even what she might be feeling right now? He only knows what he would, what he does, every time he sees her with her arms around Catalano, looking at him like...like she does. How stupid of him to assume she might feel the same sort of pain that he has almost grown accustom to, when really, their situations couldn't be any more different.

Don't shoot the messenger, right? And yet he kind of wishes she would have, because with things like how they are, he had no idea what he is supposed to do now. He isn't really sure of anything, not anymore.

He picks up that stupid tape with steady hands, and for a second, he envisions himself sending it soaring through his bedroom window. He can almost see the shiny black ribbons bursting forth and becoming entangled in the branches and wound around the leaves, can see her stop, in his minds eye and stare up in wonder at the strange sight unfurling above her, and he stops himself before he can smile at the look on her face.

Because it's not really how she looks right now, and he isn't doing himself any sort of favor by pretending that it is. Really, she's probably crying, with a blotchy face and runny nose and even he doesn't find her particularly attractive like that. Especially when he knows he is a huge part of the reason she looks this way. And anyway, his window is shut and even if it wasn't he probably couldn't pitch the tape the short distance across his room, much less into the tree in his front yard. So he just stuffs it back into his backpack, mostly just to get it out of his sight.

He'll deal with it in the morning. For now, he's got homework.

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><p><em>Brian's linguistics were much harder to mimic in this one. I want to make him all wordy and passionate in his conflicting emotions, but alas...I fear he is not too far behind Ron Weasley in his emotional range. (teaspoon).<br>_


	3. In Dreams Begin Responsibilities

_More Brian, more his room, more angst. Oh my...  
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_So now I'm going to be terribly cliche and write my own "what happened next" version of the series finale. I know this has been done and done and overdone, but alas, I had to try my own hand at it. I wrote this first and like it least, but here it is nonetheless. _

_D: Not mine.  
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><p>She didn't come back that night.<p>

Well, of course she came back, like, _home, _like, to her_ house_. Eventually. It wasn't like she stayed out the entire night with Jordan Catalano. At least, he hoped not. But no, he tried to assure himself after the shudder of possibility passed though him, she just couldn't. She might be turning into someone he hardly knew at all anymore, but of that much he could be sure. Even if only because of the fact that she had a curfew, after all. With her parents...and yeah, maybe kind of with him too.

Which made him sound like a pervy sort of uncle or something, but it wasn't like that (entirely).

He hasn't exactly been very discrete about it or anything, but he was pretty sure she never picked up on just how he had always managed to be there, outside, hanging out on their street at the very moment she came slinking home. No matter how many times their paths crossed in the twilight, she probably didn't realize it was no coincidence, that it was due to hours spent waiting, on his bike or at his window, with a watchful eye to make sure she kept made it back inside...alone. Looking back he couldn't help but to wonder how she hadn't seen straight through him, or at least called him out on it, but it shouldn't be surprising. Evidently she found everything he did (everything he was) quite easy to overlook. She wasn't exactly the most perceptive girl, he guessed, which was both reassuring and infuriating in turn.

But now he had gone and changed all of that with his inadvertent confession of fault and he wasn't even sure if he regretted it. Old habits were hard to break though, but it was with fierce determination that he willed himself to do so. Tonight he was going to stay in his bed, feet against the mattress instead of treading over familiar concrete. Because if she had expected on his presence when she got home, like some sort of street sign or tree that was just always _there_...he wouldn't be. Not anymore, not after the curtain had been ripped back to expose everything she had tried so hard not to see. He told her everything, essentially, and she still drove off away from him in Catalano's car to do God knows what. Tonight was a turning point, and there was no going back after this, no such thing as a casual meeting under the streetlights before they went their separate ways. Or maybe there could be, like, eventually...but he wasn't sure he could face that day for a long, long time. For now, there was really nothing left for him to do but put his bicycle in the garage and close the shades to his bedroom window and pretend he wasn't listening for the sound of an all-too-familiar engine on their street.

He didn't need to have the light from the moon to show him that she wasn't going to come back, not to him. Because when he really thought about it, he had never really expected her to.

Brian liked facts, remember? And it was like, even to himself, the thought of him and her...together...could never be anything more than fantasy.

It was almost like in the seventh grade when his grandfather died. It was sad, like, really, really depressing, and he cried more than he ever had before or since...but then, at the same time there was something lingering at the tips of his fingers that almost felt like relief. Just like, everything that his family had been through since they found out that Pops was sick had been so painful and so terrifying, and kept them all so on-edge every time the phone rang, dreading bad news but scared to hope for anything else, one emotion almost became indistinguishable from another. So when that moment came, when the doctor told his mother that Pops was gone, even though it made him physically sick to his stomach to hear, just knowing the inevitable had finally _happened_, that it was over...it was like being able to let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding in.

It hurt, to breathe out and know that it (they) were gone. Once expelled from his lungs, he wouldn't ever be able to take that precious air he had kept safe inside him back in again, like, ever. He would miss it, and the way it burned with a familiar fire deep within him while he fought to hold his breath, but he was almost okay with the surrender.

Because he had never been very good at playing pretend, and now wasn't the time to start trying to learn how.

Angela wasn't ever going to love him back, just like Pops wasn't ever going to get better, and trying to act otherwise was a waste of time. Maybe he hadn't wanted to say it out loud himself, or hear anyone else tell him so, but in the back of his ever-practical mind he had always known that this was how it was going to be. Being aware of the simple truth didn't make anything better or easier, but it made dealing with them a little more logical, and that was how he liked things to be. Logic was reliable and steadfast, but feelings, and emotions, well, they were better left to Shakespeare.

As was writing, so it turned out.

He could be angry, he guessed. At Angela, obviously, for walking away from him, or Rickie for spilling the beans, or Jordan, for asking him to do such a stupid thing in the first place when he had already said no. Or at least at himself, for even having the audacity to go and fall for a girl like Angela Chase in the first place. He should have known better, he could have had Delia, couldn't he? For some reason a girl, a normal, real life _girl _had liked him, but he had gone and ruined all of that. Because now he had no one, when everyone else had someone, and that gave him a right to be angry. Except he wasn't, not really. He was sad, and yeah maybe a little relieved, but mostly just exhausted and slightly sore all over, like every word he had just traded with her had struck him like a physical blow. Sinking into his mattress, he clasped his hands under his head and let the soft flannel of his sheets soothe his tired body. His lights were out and his room was dark and he was all alone in the gentle silence, and it wasn't a horrible place to be.

It would be nice to stay there, to be able to do nothing but exist in this moment, where Angela wasn't mad at him, and he wasn't mad at her, and things were, in a way, better between the two of them than they had been in a long time. But of course that like, wasn't possible. Night had to end and dawn would come, and he couldn't lie to himself that he wasn't frightened of what it might bring. They had school in the morning, but there was no way he would be taking the bus with her. It would be too much. Instead he would have to get up early to make it on his bike, even earlier than usual, but not for his usual reasons. He wouldn't be sitting in front of his camera tomorrow morning, trying to sneak a glimpse of her, the old her, the one she slipped back into when she thought no one could see. He might miss those moments most of all, when she smiled her real smile and danced around in her bedroom like she was a little girl again and he got to see it even if he knew he wasn't supposed to. But no, he couldn't, not anymore, because his camera had been hastily stowed under his bed, and he would be pedaling down the street away from her house as soon as possible.

Because when he did see her, which would be like, unavoidable at some point or another, Angela would probably give him a sad, pitying sort of smile at school, and he would walk into a wall or something. She would go out of her way to be polite to him when their paths crossed, the way she had been to the special needs kid who used to live at the corner of their street when they were younger. He would probably have to get his schedule changed, because in all honesty there really wasn't any reason he should be taking regular classes anyway, and at least then he wouldn't have to take all the tension building up while they were trapped in a classroom together. Especially after he would see her whispering to Sharon on their way out of the girl's bathroom, and though they would duck their heads when they saw him, he would have already been able to make out the words, "letter" and "Brian" and probably "embarrassing" too. That would mean that Sharon would start giving him those kinds of looks as well, and corner him by his locker to ask if he needed someone to talk to. He didn't, although the way her newly developed curves pressed against him when they hugged would be tempting, but he couldn't bear it that she would turn around and go report his despair back to their former mutual friend. There would be no way he would be able to keep tutoring Jordan, that went without saying, and he probably couldn't hang out with Rickie anymore either, because he was sort of like, Angela's first, so she probably got him in their like "divorce" or whatever. So that left him alone at school anymore. Again.

So he would have to get away, behind a camera lens or buried in even more accelerated coursework, until everything died down and he was comfortably under the radar once more. He knew he couldn't go too far, but at least, for a little while he could keep his distance. Away from her, away from her overly expressive eyes and almost sickly pale skin. Her and her ridiculous bottle-red hair that he hated because it wasn't _her, _but still couldn't stop himself from wanting to touch it every time he was around her. Hair that she curled for Jordan Catalano, hair she was probably letting bury his hands in at this very moment.

He wasn't angry, but he would be if he kept up this kind of thinking. He knew better, but some sort of sadistic tendency in him did it all the same. When it came to her, he never did what he knew he should...and just look where that had gotten him. Sighing deeply, he flipped over on his stomach and fingered a fraying edge in his pillowcase.

But she knew, at least...even if he hadn't ever actually gotten up the nerve to come out and say how much she meant to him, out loud, she still knew. Finally. He could find some comfort, however small it might be, in that little acknowledgment. She knew that no matter what Jordan said to her tonight, no matter how he held her or pressed his body against hers, he couldn't say what Brian had felt, couldn't feel what her dorky of a neighbor had been able to put into words, on paper, for her. And despite what she chose to do with that, even if it wasn't anything at all, at least he didn't have to wonder, anymore, about what he would have to do if she never figured it out.

He had had this one nightmare a couple of times, which started out at her wedding. Not their wedding, his and hers (God, even _he_ wasn't that pathetic), but just hers, to some groom who never showed his face. He always walked in, uninvited and unnoticed, at the same point in the ceremony. It was during the vows with everything white and pretty and perfect, and then he ruined her lovely moment by opening his mouth and announcing his unrequested presence. He couldn't "forever hold his peace" when she looked so wonderful and the man besides her still wasn't looking at them, but even faceless he knew it wasn't him, and in a burst of insanity he proclaimed his love for her right there in front of God and everyone. It was a nightmare because they laughed, all of them, the guests and the groom and especially her, before she rejected him like he always knew she would.

At least, when it had actually happened to him in real life, she didn't laugh and he hadn't cried and they hadn't had an audience. That was better than he had hoped for, kind of.

Kind of, because what he had really hoped for, in spite of the nightmare, in spite of what he knew was never going to happen, what he had fantasized about in this very bed, didn't result in him lying here alone. In those dreams, Jordan Catalano had nothing to do with anything, and she looked a lot less confused by his revelation and much more happy, and he knew what to say to her without a pen in his hand. But that was why they were dreams, right?

And he wished for happy ones as his eyes drifted closed. Where maybe the man in a tux sliding a ring on her finger had hair like his.

* * *

><p><em>The Enddddd!<em>


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